


We can leave it all behind us

by Kaiisan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Crowley has nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Worldbuilding, aziraphale has panic attacks and anxiety, source: I’m ace and I love romance and kisses, they can be asexual and have a romantic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiisan/pseuds/Kaiisan
Summary: Post canon, set between where the show ends and the epilogue of the books where they retire to the South Downs, just my kind of take on the how + why.London just doesn’t feel like home anymore, simply put. At least Crowley feels the same as him.





	We can leave it all behind us

The end of the world didn’t happen.

He supposed that should be a good thing, and it is. Generally speaking, life continued on, the world returned to as it was, and after that whole ordeal three months ago, with the switching of faces and hopefully scaring off the beings from Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale feels like he deserves to relax. Finally.

Unfortunately that is not the case.

Besides not having actually witnessed the burning of his bookshop, his home now feels… strange. Not quite the same anymore. Yes there were a few more books, courtesy of Adam Young, and Anathema had lent him some of her magazines, but the problem lay in the building itself. It feels hollow. He sometimes catches a whiff of smoke in the air, but nothing is burning. Dust feels like ash under his fingers, and with all these half-memories of the burning books hurts his heart more than anything else. He’s restless, constantly on edge and making sure that everything is in order wore him down. He wouldn’t call it  _ anxiety, _ per se, although that’s exactly what it was. He was simply… nervous. He refuses to admit even to himself that anything was wrong. After all, this bookshop has been his haven for so many years, it shouldn’t feel strange to him, it should be familiar.

He almost shrieks when the front door rattled open, despite being locked.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say this place feels even more unwelcoming and aged.”

It’s not said in a rude way, and the familiar step patterns of a certain demon ease Aziraphale’s panic for a moment as he comes into view. 

“Ah, just you Crowley.”

“Just me.” He agrees, sauntering up to the desk Aziraphale sat at and plants himself on top of it. The angel frowns but doesn’t say anything against it. “Why isn’t the shop open, anyway?”

“Ah,”  _ fidget. Shrug. _ “I thought the shop could do with some… rearranging. Y-yes, that’s all.”

“Rearranging?” Crowley takes an obvious look around, where everything was exactly how it was the last time he’d been there a week ago. “Haven’t started yet then?”

“Not quite, no…”

Humming, Crowley leans over the desk, getting uncomfortably close to the angel’s face. “Why are you lying, Aziraphale?”

Blue eyes blink rapidly in shock. “L-lying? How rude! I-I would never-“

“We both know you’re terrible at lying, Angel. Tell me what’s going on?” Crowley is frowning at him and up close he can see those snake eyes through his sunglasses, watching him intensely but with no hint of malice. Aziraphale is so in tuned to those eyes he can help but wilt under their influence. It’s not fair, he thinks, that Crowley is able to read him so well. It’s as though he himself were an open book, and the thought makes him shiver slightly.

“Well...if it’s honesty you want…” he begins, not really willing to admit anything out loud, the stubborn man, “I don’t… I don’t feel comfortable here anymore…”

“Why is that?” Crowley tilts his head, non judgemental as always and he’s thankful for that.

“Well, since… everything that’s happened here ...the books burning, the store being destroyed, you…” he clears his throat. “Even though the young Antichrist returned everything to normal, it doesn’t quite…”

“-feel the same? Like it’s still burning, or somehow foreign to you?” Crowley finishes for him, as if he’d been thinking the same thing. 

“You feel that way too?”

“Mmhmn.” He pushes off the desk, shrugging his shoulders and kicking up dust. He looks as uncomfortable as Aziraphale feels. “My flat...the plants… they don’t feel right anymore.”

“Right.”

They both go silent for a few minutes. Neither willing to suggest a solution that might be far fetched.

“Do you…. want to stay here… for a bit..?” Aziraphale asked quietly, keeping his gaze on his hands as he twiddles his thumbs nervously. “With me…?” 

“Move in, you mean.”

_ Nod. _

“...we can try it, I suppose. It’ll be better than being alone over there.” The last part is said so quietly the angel almost misses it, but hear it he does and is relieved he too felt loneliness whilst living alone. Crowley clicks his fingers and several thunks come from upstairs.

“Just moving my things in.” He grins, and for the first time in what feels like a while, Aziraphale feels a genuine smile of his own form.

  
  


* * *

The arrangement is new and yet familiar at the same time.

At a reasonable hour, Aziraphale will knock on Crowley’s bedroom door with a good morning greeting, breakfast prepared for them both at the small dining table in the centre of the living room. Crowley joins him for the meal, they chat quietly, then Aziraphale tends to his books and ‘rearranging’, and Crowley takes care of the handful of plants he’d miracled into the apartment. He doesn’t yell at them anymore. He mutters under his breath, solemn and quiet, too quiet for even the angel to hear. 

They do everything separate, but together. That is what it means to live together, right? Aziraphale isn't sure. In all 6000 plus years of being around Crowley they’d never lived together in one flat. It was odd, yet comforting. The mutual companionship was nice; knowing someone was there to help you or chat to you.

Though the arrangement was not perfect.

Aziraphale does not sleep.

He’d never been fond of the idea of leaving his mortal body exposed to danger while he meditated - he could never truly sleep, and deep meditation was as close as he dared to try. It was only once, and the feeling of waking up and one's surroundings being different to what they were before was not pleasant. And so he stays awake, stays busy.

He paces through the flat as quietly as possible, now that Crowley occupied the spare room. Sometimes he’ll sit and read by lamplight, but most often he paces. Paces and thinks.  _ Thinks and thinks and thinks- _

Often he finds that once his thoughts stop spinning he’s on the floor, curled up in a corner or against a bookshelf of the shop and the terrific thoughts he’d been thinking of had caused his mortal body to go into shock and hyperventilation, and while it was easy to fix, it was unsettling. He was an angel, he should not be having panic attacks. The mere thought alone was ridiculous.

A rational, human part of his subconscious that sounded vaguely of Anathema reminds him that the amount of traumatic experiences they’d gone through in the past 6 months was more than enough to warrant the panic attacks, the anxiety, the pacing, all of it. A normal human would be just as anxious, even more so probably. He was lucky, but needed to be reasonable and deal with these anxieties.

_ He didn’t know how, though. _

Another problem was Crowley.

It hadn’t been noticeable at first, but Aziraphale had heard him, one night. Screaming, muffled into his pillows no doubt. He knew that Crowley liked to practice sleeping, or whatever was the equivalent for him, and that bad dreams were known as nightmares. Crowley seemed to be having nightmares, and as frequently as every other night. Other times Aziraphale swears he hears sobbing, or crying, but he’d never asked. It wasn’t his place, and being curious about the demons personal affairs had gotten him into trouble before. He desperately wishes to help him, though. He just doesn’t know how.

  
  


* * *

It happens one day. It changes everything.

All was normal, at first. Or rather the timid, tense setting they’d strained to call normal.

Aziraphale was making a fresh pot of tea when he heard a crash and the sound of a terracotta pot breaking on the floor.

“FUCK this! Fuck you, stupid fucking plant! Shit, shit - I hate this, I hate you ALL- dirty little bastards - fuck-!”

Aziraphale was by the demon’s side in seconds. 

“Crowley?! Crowley, my dear, calm down-!”

His hands reach and grab Crowley by his flailing arms, tugging his hands down from where they pulled his messy red hair. He kept his grip tight but not rough, trying to get a good look at the squirming demon.

“Fuck! Fuck this, I can’t! I can’t do this, Angel, I-I can’t- shit, shit shit my head - it’s too much-!”

“It’s okay!” Aziraphale tries to soothe, pulling the taller man into his body and firmly wrapping his arms around his frame. He traps Crowley’s arms against him while he struggles, rubbing small circles against his back. “You’re safe, my dear, you’re safe. It’s okay, you aren’t in any danger. I’ve got you, love. There...there..”

He continues to murmur these quiet reassurances as he feels the tension drain from Crowley’s body, easing from squirming to shaking, from curse words to sobs and haggard breaths. He feels the weight of the demons head rest on his shoulder, burying his face into the jacket of Aziraphales suit, and he didn’t mind at all. His arms loosened enough to let Crowley move his own arms free, wrapping tightly around his shoulders like he was a rock in the middle of Crowley’s inner storms. Tight, but not painful. The broken plant is forgotten as an overwhelming sensation of love and protection takes over the angel, the need to help Crowley stronger than anything else he’d felt in a long time. 

Crowley was warm in his arms, and thin, so thin it felt almost as though he might break if Aziraphale squeezed to hard. He thinks of how rarely he’s seen him eat, and wonders if that’s lessened even more so in the last few weeks. His body was sorely lacking nutrients and a balanced diet, which might be affecting his mental health too.

Minutes pass, and he waits patiently, stroking Crowley’s back gently even as the sobbing stops, unwilling to move away until the other felt ready. It took a little while, but he could feel the moment when tension reentered Crowley’s body as he stood upright, turning his face away quickly.

“Angel, I…”

“You don’t need to say anything, my love.” Aziraphale interrupted quickly, gently, rubbing the redhead’s arm softly. “I’m not going to judge. I’m here for you.”

He received a nod in reply, and the two of them stand together in silence for another moment.

“Let’s leave.” Aziraphale says suddenly, not fully aware of his thought process, and looks up to meet Crowley’s red-rimmed eyes. “Let’s leave.” He says again, more firmly.

“And go where?” Croaking slightly, he can see a hint of unease in Crowley’s expression.

“Anywhere.” Azira takes Crowley’s hand and grips it determinedly. “Away from all these haunting memories. Somewhere new, where we’ve never been before. Or travel the worlds. Alpha Centauri, if you’d like. Just...anywhere. The two of us.”

It feels like a century goes past before he feels Crowley squeeze his hand back, nodding slightly. 

“That sounds nice, Angel.”

“It does.” He smiles.

“What about your books….?”

He pauses, looking around. Even here in the flat there were stacks of books in every available spot. “I suppose when we find somewhere we’d like to stay, I can move them… but they can stay here until then.”

The look Crowley gives him is surprisingly unreadable, but he thinks that’s a good sign. He looks down at their joined hands, then around the flat, then nods.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

  
  
  


* * *

The air is warm.

It feels good, inviting. Aziraphale closes his eyes as a cool breeze brushes over his face, lightly tugging at his curls and encouraging a deep intake of fresh, salty air.

“Isn’t this just delightful?” He sighs happily.

“I have sand in my shoes, Angel.”

“You should have taken them off then, like I suggested.”

The demon scoffs, toeing off the shiny black boots with childish reluctance. Aziraphale wiggles his toes further into the sand, warm and gritty and slightly damp the deeper he sinks in. In the past couple of months, they’d travelled wherever they’d felt like going to, and now they’re in a small village in the South Downs known appropriately as Seaford, near Brighton. It seems quite lovely. Peaceful. He gets the feeling deep in his soul that this was going to be their last stop; the unease and restlessness in his gut was finally gone.

He heads towards the sea.

“Oi! Wait for me, Angel-!”

He starts to  _ run _ .

He hears a laugh, then heavy footfall as Crowley starts to run after him. It’s breathtaking and exciting and he feels his body pumping blood through his ears as they get closer and closer to the water. There’s not even time to make a noise at how cold it is because the second he splashes into the water he slows down -

-but Crowley doesn’t.

He crashes into his back, sending both of them forward and deeper into the surf, hands flailing as they try to catch each other to no avail. When Aziraphale finally manages to open his eyes without them burning with salt water he sees Crowley sitting in his lap, face inches from his own, lips parted slightly and panting from exertion, and his hair is a mess. 

“This,” the demon murmurs slowly, and this close he can’t help but be drawn to the way that forked tongue slides over his lower lip, “is entirely your fault, Angel.”

...

Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s a little bumpy; their noses knock together slightly as he leans in eagerly, inexperienced but wanting; and after a moment the shocked tension in Crowley’s body relaxes, and a surprisingly hesitant hand reaches up from the waves they sat in to rest on his chest. The angel, in a surge of confidence and overwhelming relief at the response moves too, taking one hand from supporting himself and moves to cup the demon’s jaw, along his sharp jawline, past his ear to tangle his fingertips into strands of fiery red hair. Crowley gasps very quietly, breaking their mouths apart for a moment, hand gripping Aziraphale’s shirt gently as if he didn’t want him to move away just yet.

“Angel ...?” Crowley murmurs, and it’s so soft, so unsure that he could’ve been someone else entirely. There’s a question in his tone, one of doubt and insecurities and  _ yearning _ . He doesn’t need his abilities as an angel to understand what Crowley’s asking, thinking, feeling in this moment. He just knows.

“I think we’ve found our new home, my love.” He smiles against Crowley’s mouth, feeling the way he catches his breath in his throat. “Don’t you agree?”

“Our new home…” he repeats, emphasis on the word ‘ours’, and Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle quietly.

“Yes. You, me, together…” he couldn't finish his sentence as Crowley leans in this time, cutting him off with an eager and equally clumsy kiss of his own. It’s messier than the first; waves are breaking against Aziraphale’s back, and spraying a fine mist over them as they laugh between breaths and soft kisses. 

  
  


* * *

A small cottage miraculously becomes available and sold within the same day, fully furnished with a cosy living room, a second bedroom which was transforming into a small library, and a big garden at the front and back of the building full of blooming plants. The residents at this cottage were friendly, if a bit odd, and mostly kept to themselves, but anyone was welcome to stop by for a chat and a cup of tea. They were occasionally visited by a couple in a three-wheel car, or a collection of adventurous young kids crammed into one family van. They were never loud, never caused trouble, and enjoyed days on the beach eating ice cream and building fantastic castles in the sand. They’d adopted the stray cat that lived on their road, and every other that stray that turned to them for help. Their health had improved. The blonde haired man no longer paced himself into a panic attack on the regular, and only rarely has a bad day. The red haired man sleeps more peacefully, to the sound of waves crashing on the nearby beach, and when the nightmares do come, he reaches for the man in the bed beside him, who holds him and reassures him that they are just fine, and that he loves him.

They can finally feel at peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I wrote this while on a 4 day break from work, travelling 7+hours to go see friends, and having only 6 hours sleep since Friday morning (it’s now Sunday evening here as I write this). Please love this


End file.
